Green Barely Holding

Twilight stolen after a long run of simply being the resting place before darkness. In this venue, the truth can unravel to reveal the reaper. Really, isn't that who is in charge? Know thy enemy. Thyself?

A little lighter now, because perhaps it is more palatable when one doesn't stare right at it.

A downy woodpecker mines the bedroom sill as I fill his cavities with sleep. Afternoon gushes but I can only stare into the western window. Green barely holding. The memory of happiness clinging to blue effusion in hushed tones. Summer pens a lessening geometry. Yet I am here. Still.

When one breaks the night, it's not so crazy to expect dawn to rise through the shattering – crisp gold highways shouldering that elusive ladder towards anything but here. Instead, grey upon grey. Rain in the ocean. Thunder in low vibrations.

Some leaves are already curling. I'm trying my best to ignore the tick-tock tap of acorns falling. Fall. And the sentence that follows.

You / named for the Sea / the wandering Dylan / gravedigger and ghost / let's be friends